


The Birds In The Sky Would Be Sad and Lonely

by thisbirdhadflown



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, John's Insecurities, John/Paul (Implied), John/Stuart (One Sided) (Implied), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22569208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadflown/pseuds/thisbirdhadflown
Summary: "It’s their fourth day in Barcelona and Brian’s already built up the nerve to pick up men in front of John. Not that he’s cross about it, or disturbed. It’s just intriguing now, in the same way his foreign exploits in Hamburg had been at first. But there’s a difference between the little coloured pills the barmaids would pour into his palm and Brian Epstein."A manager and a musician enjoy a holiday in Barcelona, 1963.
Relationships: Brian Epstein/John Lennon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 62





	The Birds In The Sky Would Be Sad and Lonely

The afternoon sun has soaked everything in soft tangerine and gold hues, a stark contrast to the brilliant blue of the waves rolling over each other in a sedating rhythm. John and Brian lounge in their beach chairs, legs stretched out with drinks in hand. Maybe John is a bastard for enjoying this as much as he does, though the bliss falters when he thinks of Cyn being home alone, Mimi probably driving her mad. He sips at his drink, something a tad too sweet for his own taste and ponders the vacant pit of his chest where he figures the overwhelming guilt should be. 

“What are you thinking about?” Brian asks him, and it amuses John that he’s finally gathered up the courage to ask that of him. 

“Something wicked and sinful,” he replies, sucking the last of his drink through the straw.

“As per usual,” Brian responds with a touch of amusement lacing his tone, adjusting his sunglasses over his eyes.

“You can speak to that, can’t ye? You’re drooling over all the boys walking past,” he plants the empty glass in the sand in between them, sitting upright and straightening his spine. If Brian’s eyes trail over him as he does this, he’s made his point. 

“My admiration is far more subtle than yours has been,” Brian says after a moment, “You just take your freedom for granted.”

He hums in acknowledgement, eyeing the delicate way Brian’s legs are crossed at the ankles.  _ Freedom _ . 

“I’d write something about that, you know,” he kicks at the sand at his toes, “Haven’t written much since I got here.”

Brian reclines in his seat a little, tilting his chin up to let the last of the day’s sun seep into his skin, “Don’t force anything, you’re supposed to relax.”

“Mm, you tell all the boys that?” he hums, eyes drifting up as a man emerges from the waves, smoothing back the dark mop of hair on his head, broad and tanned chest heaving a little, “How about that one there?”

Brian shifts in his seat, “Yes, I’d say he’s very attractive. He was looking at us earlier, in fact.”

John watches the man march out of the water onto the wet sand, the sun-paled blue shorts wet and clinging to the tops of his strong thighs. There’s a small burst of heated fascination in his core, his stomach tightening a little in response. Lowering his eyes to his feet, caked in gritty sand, he decides he’s in dire need of another splash of alcohol to douse out these strange flames. 

“Could do with another drink,” he tosses a look over his shoulder and up to the small bar across the street from the beach, “What about you, aye Bri?”

“No, thank you.”

John rises from his seat with a throaty grunt, catching Brian’s eyes following his movements in his peripheral vision. It almost annoys him that he can be all soft-stomached and pale and unfit, skin greasy from the sunscreen and pink faced from being practically cooked in the sun - and yet Brian will look at him with a glint of enthrallment in his eyes for a moment before he corrects himself. At first it had just been amusing. Now John finds that he chases it a little more because it gives him a thrill. 

He stalks up the warm sand, calves burning a little by the time he makes it to the bar. He tosses a handful of notes over the counter hardly caring just how much he’s given over. Brian has been the one in charge of the money during the trip, birthing an abundance of cruel jokes about the manager. 

The cool condensation pools at his fingers as he takes his first swig from the perspiring bottle, leaning against the bar and looking out on the sun dipping into the sea. The last time he was at a beach Stuart was alive. He licks over the back of his teeth in contemplation. They had spent the day making sandcastles while Cyn and Astrid laid out on their towels, and when the sun set, they gathered weary fallen branches and threw them into a messy pile and lit it all on fire. The sharp contrast between the navy-black of the sky and the brilliant orange of the flames licking up at the air was stunning.

Stu’s absence had created a muted kind of ache, like a dull blade grating against his heart continuously. When life gets quiet it rises to the surface all over again. He grits his teeth and takes another gulp. He spots Brian’s figure standing in the shallow water, hands on hips in that effeminate way that John had teased him about at the airport. The man in the blue swim shorts strolls over to Brian, two figures standing in the setting sun’s light. John has to turn away.

The last wisps of silver clouds are drifting across the horizon as the cool breeze picks up, making John shiver a little. It’s their fourth day in Barcelona and Brian’s already built up the nerve to pick up men in front of John. Not that he’s cross about it, or disturbed. It’s just intriguing now, in the same way his foreign exploits in Hamburg had been at first. But there’s a difference between the little coloured pills the barmaids would pour into his palm and Brian Epstein. The twisting sensation in his stomach alerts him to the fact he’s overthinking this, and chooses to drown it with another splash of his drink. 

He’s half-lidded and hazy by nightfall, chatting with some Spanish bird in a blasphemous pink bikini while she sips coyly at her martini. Though the edges of his vision are fuzzy and warm, he’s got a pretty good idea of where he is and how he’ll travel back to the hotel, but not with the Spanish bird in tow. He’s a married man now, though he’d left his ring in the drawer by his bed.  _ What a bastard I am _ . His mind flickers over to an image of Brian sitting across from him at the cafe that morning, all shy when John had told him not to be.

_ “It’s a bloody holiday. Don’t hold back for my sake. I’m not your mother, or a fucking cop. If I can have my fun, so should you.” _

He licks over his chapped lips and pushes himself away from the bar to begin to make the blurry journey back to the apartment. It’s only when he begins to fumble with the roomkey, that he considers that Brian might have company with him. The door swings open, a slow and steady scrape, and his eyes drift across the lounge for sign of activity. Nothing but a record player in the corner softly crooning some jazz number indicating there is any life here. There are a few empty glasses and a small stack of vinyl resting on the coffee table that he takes note of as he drifts through the room. He had eagerly filed through those albums last night and doesn’t recall anything particularly worthy of swapping out the current record for. He shuffles over towards his assigned room, hovering by the door. At this moment he can hear the muffled sound of voices and movement coming from the other end of the apartment. The skin on his arms and the back of his neck prickle. He runs a hand over his jaw, down his throat, anxiety churning as his eyes dart from the bed inside his room and the plain white door on the other side of the apartment. 

When he shuts the door to his room behind him, he makes sure it’s loud enough for the doorframe to shake. Loud enough for Brian to hear. 

-

Sometime late in the morning John makes his way down to their designated spot at the cafe next to their hotel building, sporting dark sunglasses and dishevelled hair. He’d woken up late, a strip of sunburn in the place between his shoulder blades that he regrets not just getting Brian to slather sunscreen on. 

Brian is reading a paper, dressed in an white polo and navy shorts, jaw cradled in his hand. His half-eaten breakfast has been pushed into the middle of the table, and without exchanging a word John takes it as an invitation to gobble up the rest of the neglected food. Brian doesn’t look up from the paper for a long moment, allowing John to feast in peace.

“Sleep well?” he asks, the rattle of the flimsy pages a tad too loud in John’s already ringing ears.

“Like a baby, I assume. Not that I’d know much about that,” he mutters through a mouthful of toast. 

Brian passes him a napkin, acting on instinct, “Yes, well - I was hoping that we could attend the bullfight this afternoon. I have a feeling you’d enjoy it.”

“Why?” he scoops a forkful of beans into his mouth. 

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the experience by explaining it to you.”

“I know what happens, you’ve told me before,” he replies, looking up only to see his reflection in the sunglasses that sit on top of Brian’s head. He pulls a face and returns his attention to breakfast, “Why bring me along to it?”

“Well, you have accompanied me on this trip, I feel a responsibility to show you the best of his country,” Brian explains, pinching a corner and turning over a page.

“Ah, is tha’ why you asked me to tag along? T’ show me the  _ culture _ ?” John challenges, briefly acknowledging the waiter that brings them two tall glasses of water with lemon slices perched on the rims. 

“Why wouldn’t I ask?” Brian responds, easy and casual.

John huffs a single syllable of laughter, “Same reason you didn’t ask Paul. Or George. Or Ringo. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“You’re the leader of the band and we have things to discuss. We’re both in need of a rest.”

The clinking of cutlery and the soft hum of conversation around them seems to fade away as he regards Brian, searching his face for some kind of sign of discomfort. 

“You’re a brave fella, aren’t ye?” John chuckles, leaning back in his seat. His mind drifts over to Astrid and the boys in Teneriffe. Is his absence even bothering anyone? Bothering Paul? He’d hope Astrid would know that he’s not being a miserable coward and avoiding her. She knows he cares, surely. She and Cyn exchange letters all the time, and he’ll always make sure to tack on a little message at the end of the page for her. Still, what was Paul thinking?

“I was thinking ‘bout Stu last night,” John asks wiping at the crumbs at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. 

Brian folds up the paper and lays it to one side, humming, “Well, it has been just about a year since he passed.”

“Was he your type?” he questions, watching the way Brian’s brow furrows in mild horror and confusion.

“John, that’s not-”

“I’m not talkin’ about his fucking corpse,” John presses, “Did ye like him? Yes or no?”

He casts his eyes down to his hands, “I did like him, very much so. He had enormous talent.”

A pause.

“I  _ can  _ admire a brilliant person without wanting to go to bed with them,” he adds. 

An odd burst of emotion climbs up from the pit of chest all the way to his throat and sits there in a tense ball he can’t quite speak through. He realises that concept is foreign to him, and a crackling of angst rumbles against his ribs. He relents, toying with the small lemon slice between slender digits. When he catches Brian looking, he doesn’t say anything.

“Well, Brian, we ought to get going. Don’t want t’ miss the big show, eh?” he hauls himself up out of the chair, smoothing his hands over the soft fabric of his shirt. Brian isn’t looking at him this time.

-

Brian is completely and wholeheartedly mesmerised by the bullfight, standing tall with his hands clasped together - not unlike his usual stance when he’s watching the boys at a particularly important gig. His eyes are alight, he’d say it’s childlike, but that’s not it. Because Brian is a man. And that fact has been spinning on an incessant loop around in John’s skull without pause for the past few days. 

He had told Paul in person about the trip, doing his best to sound nonchalant about it. If he had just let it slip over the phone then Paul would know for sure he was nervous about telling him, and he couldn’t have that. Still, his partner knows him better than anyone, and it’s for that reason he’s at a bloody bullfight watching some mad beast gallop about in the dust while his thoughts stay centred on wondering what Paul had  _ really  _ thought about this holiday. 

He looks over at Brian again, just because it arouses some kind of joy within him too, to see him so animated and free. He’s got his arms crossed over across his chest, grinning madly, sweat beading and sliding down the side of his face.  _ The bird is out of the cage _ , he thinks to himself. 

The bull is slayed and the spectators cheer.

-

“Wasn’t it marvellous?” Brian chirps happily as they stroll along the sidewalk. John has his camera hanging around his neck, snapping up photos of foreign architecture and water fountains with crumbling statues. Things Cyn would want to see. 

“Too fucking brutal for my taste,” John comments before stopping in his place to capture a photo of a stray cat sunbathing on the grass. 

“See, I don’t think it is at all, it’s an art form. A thrilling sort of dance. It provokes a sense of hope at the end, don’t you think?” 

Brian turns to look over the beds of brightly coloured flowers, thoughtful and dreamy. Without thinking, John lifts his camera and captures the moment with a click. The older man blinks in surprise, turning quickly to face John. 

“Give me warning next time,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck in a soothing motion. 

“Oughta give me some credit, I went to art school, don’t you forget,” John snaps another photo that might turn out slightly out of focus, but it’s amusing to watch Brian get flustered. 

“And how did that turn out for you?” Brian quips quietly, giving the quickest flash of a teasing smirk before turning back to face the flowers.

John cackles and jumps out in front of Brian and takes another photo, “You sly bastard! All this time telling me that I’m a brilliant artist - _ a force of nature _ \- now the truth comes out.”

A small smile as he stares down the lens, “I do believe it.”

He lowers the camera, regards Brian’s perfect posture and the fond smile that has his eyes crinkling at the sides. It’s this look that he’s giving him now that John most associates with Brian. Earnest and unabashed admiration, every confidence that they can take over the world with their music. It stirs a kind of wobbly feeling within him, like when he was a lad and he’d ride his bike too fast down a steep hill. The end of the journey might just be a painful crash, possibly fatal. Every dip in the road has his stomach swooping, teeth chattering. His entire frame buzzes with it, this warmth that Brian gives him. He doesn’t deserve it, but he needs and desires it more and more. 

It gets him thinking about other feelings he would rather not have bloom. 

“Don’t go soft on me, Bri,” his voice is low, like all that pressure in his throat is filtering out all the guarded snark he needs to colour his words with. Maybe Brian is watching him unravel.

-

That night the two of them dine at a luxurious seafood restaurant with high ceilings and large windows, opened just a crack to let the crisp night’s air cool down the space. The walls are painted in warm tones, expensive art hanging above their heads portray matadors standing tall and proud, chests puffed out and their jackets glittering in the light. While they wait for their meals he uses the phone to call Cyn. She’s delighted by his call, telling him in a hushed and content voice that his son is fast asleep. That he’s healthy and happy. John wants to crawl through the phone line back to her in that moment. More than that, he wants to carve out a space in between both worlds he’s in where he doesn’t have to deal with himself or anyone else. All his stupid impulses and queer thoughts, all of his crippling insecurity. He wants to throw it all out to sea, he wants to hold it close to his chest and never let go. 

The food is on the table, untouched, when he returns.

“How is Cynthia?” Brian asks. 

“She’s fine,” he slips into his seat, “Miss her like mad, though.”

It’s quiet between them for a few minutes, chewing thoughtfully, casting looks over their shoulders and out the windows where one can see the dark ocean tumble upon itself over and over. Brian had gone swimming that afternoon. John stayed back where the seafoam could only lick at his knees and watched the older man as he swam out amongst a few other tourists that delighted in jumping up in time with the waves. When he had noticed his shadow, stretched out to his side, he cursed and forced his hands to fall from where they sat on his hips. His skin smelt of sunscreen and salt, his mouth tasting like stale smoke he’d been breathing in while he waited for Brian to change into his swimming trunks. Seeing Brian’s bare chest stirred him strangely. He felt the desire to reach out and press his palm to his sternum. To feel his heartbeat hammering just like his own, to remind himself over and over that the only time he didn’t have the upper hand was when they were the same. But even that feels like grim defeat. To have his resolve crumble like sand and fall through his fingers like that, he doesn’t know if he could handle it. His entire existence is flickering between bold curiosity and absolute fear, and he wonders if he wears it like a skin. Wonders if Brian can read him. If that’s why he’s being so patient. Like he can see the hairline cracks already. 

“You never said anything about last night,” he says as they walk back to their hotel, hands in pockets, elbows grazing every couple of steps. It elicits an electric kind of thrill every single time. 

“Neither did you,” Brian responds casually, looking up at the stars.

“Nothing much to say. Hardly remember it,” John shrugs, eyes on his own feet. He remembers tipping back drinks at the bar, he remembers Brian’s door lurking in the corner of his mind as he slipped into bed.

“I hardly remember my evening either,” Brian admits with a soft chuckle, kicking at a loose pebble and watching it skip along the pavement and roll onto the road. 

“Was he good?” 

“You really want to know these things?” Brian questions, voice sounding slightly strained.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to,” John replies.

“From what I can recall,” Brian begins with a shy smile that John catches before he can turn his face to hide it, “Very good.”

The young musician nods, “So, what then? Have ye ever… gone steady with someone?”

A beat of silence, “Nothing lasting too long. It’s...It’s difficult. You can be discreet and careful, but a single moment of recklessness and… Well, I’m sure you know. Thrown in prison. Left beaten half to death in an alleyway. All because of a look, a gesture. Perhaps two people might fall in love under these circumstances, but to sustain a proper traditional relationship? It’s unrealistic to expect that. You can certainly hope for it, because otherwise...otherwise it’s far too bleak.”

John turns to watch the way Brian’s lips wrap around each word, the way his eyes wander upwards as he explains himself. It all reminds him of a night he, Paul and Stuart had sat up on the roof of Astrid’s home, smoking under the dark grey sky and curling in on themselves every time the cold air hit them. 

“Think about it, John,” Stuart had told him, cigarette dangling between his lips, “All these men scurrying about in the dark corners of society, just to find each other for the night, before they put on their suits and go to work in the morning.”

John had looked over at his friend, in much the same way he’s looking at Brian now, and watching him with a quiet kind of awe. Paul had shifted, sighing a long exhale of blue smoke.

“They reap the fruit, _ so to speak _ ,” Stuart huffs a laugh, expelling smoke into the air above his head, “Loneliness can kill a man, so man has to fight it. He  _ has  _ to go out, get his fix. That isn’t queer, that’s human nature. What actually turns you on has little to do with it in the end.”

He had looked almost angelic, moonlit and pale and sharp. Ignited and driven. In the moments of quiet that followed, John had wanted to reach out to someone, pour his soul into their hands. Let himself be fully understood, without a single worry spared for the aftermath of such revelations.

“You think that poet was right? One in four?” John had asked, feeling his heart shift like a kaleidoscope.

Stuart pursed his lips in contemplation, bringing the cigarette to his lips once again, “I don’t know. I’m an art student, remember? Numbers make my head spin.” 

They both had grinned at that, ankles knocking together. Paul had muttered something to himself and pulled himself up to crawl back through the window. And John wondered if he should have done something. When his knuckles had dragged alongside Stuart’s thigh, maybe he should have lingered longer. Should have pressed his mouth to his collarbone and stayed there, waiting and hoping. He’s no good with numbers either, he would have said, and maybe those whispers of desire he had always try to stamp out would rise to the surface. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it felt good, just this once. 

Paul had left the two of them on the roof, and John knew what that meant. Until Paris.

-

“When we’re rich and famous,” he starts as they shift into the elevator, “You can do whatever you want. Live with a man and just say he works for you. Sue anyone that says different.” 

Brian half smiles, “I’ve never thought about it.”

John looks over Brian’s shoulder and at the mirror behind him, half startled by it. The elevator rattles to a start, climbing up each floor with a mechanical groan. 

“What  _ do  _ ye think about, then? Isn’t it all about sex in the end?” he muses, almost glaring at his own reflection in the mirror. 

“I think about the future, the band’s success…” 

“It’s all about sex in the end, Brian,” John mutters, watching the way Brian’s jaw clenches. 

-

At some point during the night, Brian leaves the hotel and John is all alone. He twists open a bottle of wine and pours himself a bath to soak in, rid himself of the oil on his skin without having to endure the laborious task of standing up on his feet under the shower-head. The hum of the television in the lounge settles the nerves that have bubbled up in Brian’s absence. He could easily drift off but there is an anxious part of him that wants to be awake to hear his companion’s return. At the start of the holiday they had been clinging to each other. Laughing as they stumbled through the streets. It had been easy. He doesn’t know why it feels so overwhelming now.

Just when the water becomes too cold to stand, the sound of footsteps padding across the carpet stir John back into lucidity. He’s unaccompanied, which puzzles him. Maybe it’s a relief to him as well. He feels boneless and heavy as he wraps himself up in a pearl white bathrobe, sauntering over to the door and spilling out towards the noise. His bedroom door clicks shut before John can catch a glimpse of Brian, and he’s half tempted to go after him. Knock on the door and crawl to the end of the bed, no real motive except to be closer to him.

All those times Stuart had promised him that he wasn’t losing him as a friend just because they were on a different path, it hadn’t amounted to anything. He thinks if he somehow lost Brian he’d completely crack. The promise of fame and fortune, the promise that he would ‘ _ always be there for you boys’  _ \- Brian only made promises he could keep, always careful with his words, even when his optimism was strongest. He wouldn’t lie to them. 

_ Stuart never lied to me either _ , he thinks miserably as he collapses onto the couch, limbs melting into the cushions. 

-

The air is sticky and humid today, swollen clouds rolling across the sky, threatening to burst open by the afternoon. John manages just over an hour in the ocean while Brian catches up with an old friend at a bar down the street. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, he supposes, but he feels restless and stupid and alone. The only person he could stand to be around right now is the very same person who has fucked off with his mate. The only person who can stand him in this mood has found something better to do.  _ Or someone _ .

He’s brooding over this, standing where the water reaches his thighs when a wave hits him - too strong and sudden - and he tumbles backwards. A tortuous few seconds of not knowing whether he’s up or down, the side of his leg scraping against the sand harsh enough to sting. He’s spat out, feeling like fucking fool as he splutters up the seawater he had inhaled. Sitting up, burning with embarrassment, not daring to check if anyone had seen him. When he doesn’t hear any cruel laughter, just the rhythmic lapping of water and the far away voices of beach-goers, he stands up and spits in an attempt to get the taste of the ocean out of his mouth. His retreat back to the room is out of pure desperation to escape himself.

-

The two of them find each other and meet up for dinner at a place John had spotted when they had first arrived. Brian talks animatedly about his friend - an actor from London who owns a beach house here. He’s preparing for an audition that will take place in a week from now, apparently. Not that John gives a fuck. He wants to go back to the hotel and get blind drunk, forget about the pathetic wank he’d had on his bed before Brian returned. It had eased the nerves and brought about a new kind of angst all at once. 

Thankfully, Brian plans to stay in tonight, extracting a bottle of rum and proclaiming that it was one of the finest that could be bought in this area. John had swiped it from his hands with a teasing laugh and grabbed them both glasses and some ice from the small freezer.

The pattering of rain against the windows is soft and pleasant in a way it definitely hadn’t been when sleeping in the cinema in Hamburg. The cracks in the roof allowing the cold dribble of rain onto the floor around them. The t _ ap, tap, tap _ \- sporadic to the point that it unnerved him. He would turn over and over in an attempt to find comfort, eyes blinking against the dark. The wind howling like some deranged creature, rattling the bones of the creaky establishment. Hardly any sleep could be had on nights like those. Nights where Stuart would hover in the bunk bed above him, and John could practically hear the incessant hum of his thinking despite not being able to see him. George’s soft snores and Pete shifting about on his mattress. Paul’s warm body curled up in a Union Jack, the slight pout of his lips as he dreamed. It’s barking mad, but he almost misses that proximity in the gritty womb of Hamburg. 

Time has become honey-thick and everything is washed over in the warm lamp lights. The two men sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Brian cradling the nearly drained bottle like it might float away from him if he’s not careful. John watches the rise and fall of his chest, the exposed flesh of his thighs.  _ He’s a writer. He observes _ . The sentiment plays on a loop much like the record spinning in the corner. It’s more jazz, but John doesn’t mind it this time. It’s something, sitting just above the rain, making the intent in his staring seem less invasive, perhaps. They’re just two blokes listening to a record. 

“You could go out, I don’t mind,” he rests his head against the back of the couch, the upwards crawl of his line of vision so slow it takes a solid ten seconds to reach Brian’s eyes.

“I know,” his voice rumbles low in his chest, and John can feel every vibration in the air, “I’d like to stay. Can’t go out in this... state.”

“Would you take me,” John asks with a slack jaw, “To one of your clubs?”

Brian draws in a breath, “Is that what you want?”

John’s eyelids droop over almost completely, “No... I dunno.” 

“What do you want, John?”

A spark of arousal has goosebumps pebbling along the skin of his arms. It licks up and around his ribcage, has every pulse point going mad with it. 

_ You _ . 

_ I want you to stay with me. _

“Dunno,” he repeats unintelligently after a drawn out pause. He wants to kiss Brian, impassioned and frantic-like. Just to get it over with, just to drag it out while he has the chance. Wants to run his hands over the surface of his back, chest, arms. Wants him because this is his  _ only  _ chance. He had glimpses of it in Paris with Paul - the two of them stumbling along the pavement, dragging their feet and clinging to each other. Bellies aching from laughter, all cramped up in one bed, back to back. Paul, intoxicated and too far gone to even bother making sense when he whispered in the shell of John’s ear. John, trembling with adoration. His best mate. His partner. Long lashes casting shadows over doe eyes.  _ I need you more than anyone else.  _ It’s not the words that sit under his tongue that bother him, it’s that they’re  _ not enough _ . He’s drawn to these men in ways he doesn’t know how to cope with. Burning, aching and desperate to never let go. 

He swallows hard, keeps his gaze fixed on Brian’s eyes, dark and dusky and glazed over. 

“You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” Brian murmurs, eyes imploring. 

He’s going to fuck things up. Promises will break apart, shatter and cut him up worse than he could ever imagine. So he takes the last swig of rum from the bottle, tossing it back next to Brian’s lap and using the armrest to steady himself as he gets up onto his feet. The floor sways underneath him, Brian is glowing in the outskirts of his vision. 

“G’night, Brian,” he calls out with a stifled yawn, pressing his forearm against the door and pushing it open. He feels like he’s walking into the room for the first time, trying to navigate his way to the bed with the earth tilting on its axis. He pulls his shirt over his head, casting it aside. He blinks the fuzziness away, trying to determine what’s different about this room. The bed is up against the wrong wall, he scratches at his chin, tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. 

When he sees a bottle of pills sitting next to an empty glass of water on the bedside table, he figures it out. 

When he hits the mattress and inhales deeply, the scent of Brian’s cologne intermingled with the undercurrent of the ocean, he figures it out.

When he feels a dip in the mattress, but no warm press of another body against his side, he figures it out.

-

The sky is clear and blue again today, and John is sat on the balcony with a smoking ashtray and pages of blank paper. He takes a slow drag, expelling the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, pen tapping against the paper and dotting it with small blots of ink. 

He draws himself first in the centre of the page. Long nose and a pair of glasses, a bottle of rum in his fist. The pen swirls just above the self portrait for a few seconds, John in deep thought. He starts to draw Brian with starry eyes and a scarf knotted around his neck. The only overlap between the two is their hands both gripping the bottle between them.  _ Freud would have a good laugh about that _ , he thinks to himself as he notes how the bottle is vaguely phallic-looking. Then again, Freud would have tried to keep him in a cage for observation. Hopeless Lennon. Insecure and lonely Lennon. He ought to write more honestly. Show the world what a loser he is, just when they’re starting to worship him.

Brian wouldn’t dare bother him while he’s working like this, but he finds himself wanting his company. Leaning back in his chair and tipping his head back, he calls out for him. Within seconds Brian steps out onto the balcony, looking somewhat startled at John’s summoning.

“Have you ever written a song?” he asks, turning back to his paper, sliding his drawing underneath other torn out pages.

“I used to write poetry years ago,” Brian replies, brow furrowed in thought. He’s lighting up a smoke for himself, leaning against the railing on his elbows. 

“I hope your interest in us lasts longer than your poetry phase,” John mutters, starting to scribble again.

“I do wish you would stop that. Talking as if I’m about to desert you. I don’t know what more I can do to convince you of my loyalty.”

“I don’t have a backup plan like you do.”

A pause, “That disappoints me. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“What do I know about you?” John replies, quick and sharp.

“You know enough to be cruel when the mood strikes.”

John looks over his shoulder and is surprised to find Brian half-smiling at him. John can’t help but break into a sort of lop-sided smile.

“Got t’ keep you on ye toes, don’t I?”

“Apparently so,” Brian drawls, stepping over to tap his cigarette, and John watches the ash rain into the smouldering ashtray.

-

He spends the rest of the day writing, the two of them ordering room service to bring them dinner when the sky goes dark and he can barely make out what he’s writing anymore, even with his glasses. He tosses his specs onto his bedside table and slides his stack of papers into the drawer. 

Brian is absent again, which makes John feel on edge. Figures he’s probably made a friend on the beach and has followed them to some velvet-walled club to get properly introduced. The small television flickers between static filled channels and John is trying to dial the room service number again without his glasses and failing miserably. He’d been craving a bottle of rum. 

There’s a fumbling at the door before Brian enters, towel thrown over his shoulder, wet white shirt clinging to his torso. John is stunned, hand hovering over the telephone as he sits perched on the armrest of the couch. 

“I was about to send out a search party to the ocean floor for you,” he jokes, but it comes out a tad anxious.

Brian raises his eyebrows in surprise, “Oh? No, I’m fine. The beach is quite breathtaking tonight, couldn’t bring myself to leave.”

“You’re cold,” John observes out loud, noting Brian’s hunched shoulders as he stalks across the lounge and towards his room, droplets running down the length of his legs and pooling on the tiles. 

“Nothing a bath wouldn’t fix. Fetch me that wine on the counter there, would you? Need to get rid of the seawater taste.”

“Seawater or sea-men,” John quips, reaching out over to the opened bottle and gripping it by the neck.

“I beg your pardon?” Brian’s voice calls out from his room, a crackling of laughter on the last syllable.

“You ‘eard me, Eppy,” John licks over his lips and approaches the door to Brian’s room, hesitating for a moment before pushing through. The tap is running, splashing against the floor of the tub, and Brian is peeling off his shirt.

“Ah, thank you,” Brian takes the wine, fingers brushing against John’s. 

“You telling me that you were just swimming that whole time?” John implores, watching the contracting muscles in Brian’s back as he moves. 

“Swimming, resting,” Brian replies, taking a swig and savouring it before swallowing. 

“I thought you’d been cruising or something,” John admits before he can stop himself.

Brian scoffs, “No. Just myself and the sea.” 

He makes his way to the ensuite where the tub is gradually filling up. John wants to say something, the pulse points in his fingertips beating with unclear purpose. 

Itching to make an impact, “Need me to scrub your back?” 

Brian’s figure stills in the doorway, “I can manage.”

“I’m not joking, here. Maybe I’ll jump in, give meself a proper scrubbing, too.” 

“You have your own tub,” Brian’s voice is quieter, his back still facing John. And all he wants to do now is approach him, run his hands over the expanse of his back - slightly golden now after days soaking in the sun. 

“Sharing is caring, I thought,” John sits himself on the edge of Brian’s bed, watching the figure in the doorway loom over the white bath. Steam clouding the mirrors, barriers being blurred.

“I care for leg room,” Brian counters, hands on hips. 

“I’ll squeeze myself in,” John can’t help the wicked smirk that flickers across his lips, “You’d make room for me, wouldn’t you, Bri?”

A prolonged pause, “You’re becoming predictable, John.”

Wounded, John purses his lips and casts his eyes down to the floor. He has no response now. Suppose you can’t walk the tightrope for too long, can you? He falls back on the mattress, heart thundering when he hears the door to the ensuite snap shut. The water stops running a lifetime later. He hears a sharp intake of Brian’s breath as he sinks into the water, and John’s hand snakes down his torso and over his crotch. 

A glance over at the bedside table shows the unlabelled bottle of pills - _ helps with my insomnia _ , Brian had told him. He wonders what keeps Brian up at night. If it resembles the feeling curling around his spine right now, skin sizzling with arousal.

Without drifting off, without shifting, he stays there. Thinks he ought to kick off his pants and rid himself of his shirt that’s now feeling a tad too tight around him. Maybe shed off layers and layers of his own stupid armour while he’s at it. Let it fall to the floor like it’s nothing but a soiled piece of clothing he can deal with later. 

He barely flinches when the door swings into itself, revealing a totally bare Brian. 

“Oh shit,” Brian huffs and turns around to snatch a towel to cover himself with. John would laugh if his humour hadn’t evaporated along with every sensible instinct he possesses. 

“No need to be shy,” he says faintly, eyeing him up and down, over the towel hovering over his front.

“I’m- I don’t… I was just surprised,” he stumbles over his words, face flushed a pale pink. 

“I’m sick of this fucking dance… Let’s just get it over with,” John lifts himself up. The fly of his pants is open and it’s what Brian’s eyes dart towards immediately. 

“John-”

“Got to be thinking like a writer, don’t I? Got to experience things, to be a  _ proper artist _ ,” it sounds rehearsed, because it has been. Over and over again.

“John, please,” Brian looks pained. 

“I’m not joking, come on,” John presses. His composure is dissolving, voice losing clarity every time he opens his mouth. 

“John, I can’t,” Brian keeps his eyes firmly locked on John’s, “How can you do that to me?”

“You started the fucking thing, didn’t you? Inviting me here. I’m not bloody daft! Just this once. Just show me, alright?” 

As he speaks the tub’s drain sucking up the last of the water is overpowering his voice. He can see how the air is vibrating with every breath they exhale. 

“Just once,” John echoes. Eyes surveying each other, flit from feature to feature in silent, hungry desperation.

“ _ And then what? _ The last thing I would want to do is ruin this partnership.The band… What about America?” Brian’s words are so breathy and faint they barely register. 

John’s hands bunch up into fists at his side, “I told you… Just a bit of fun. An experiment. Just want to see what it’s like.”

“You’ll run away,” Brian says sharply.

“I won’t,” John promises through laboured breathing, “Just stay with me...Stay.” 

He tilts his frame forward and allows his mouth to graze over the older man’s jaw before pressing himself entirely against him. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, shivering a little when Brian’s hands - strong and soft all at once - reach up to cradle his face. They’re both trembling. He pulls back, eyes trying to communicate a promise he’s never had to make before.

They kiss timid and shy. Unsure. The rhythm begins when John allows his fear to burn. Brian’s teeth graze over his over his bottom lip, mouth going slack when John grips his hips and brings him closer. A broken sigh ghosts over his cheek when Brian pulls back a little for a moment before mouthing at John’s throat. Ecstasy rippling through his skin, he groans and he’s unashamed. A press of his hips against Brian’s thigh and he’s almost dizzy. His hands climb up Brian’s back, running back down his sides. He moans into John’s shoulder as he allows his knuckles to brush the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh.

“Get this off,” John murmurs, stepping back to pull his shirt over his head.

“John,” Brian breathes pressing his palms over the musician's chest, guiding him back into the bed. John stutters a string of expletives in the absence of actual coherency. Half-mast and aching a little, he reaches down to hold himself, a few lazy tugs as Brian hovers over him and watches with blown pupils. 

“Beautiful,” he sighs, unsteady hands running over John’s thighs, “I-”

John holds the back of his neck and pulls him back up to his mouth, kissing hungrily and not minding the scrape of rough cheek against his own. Not minding that Brian smells like the ocean, the sun and something with more spice in it. Not minding his damp hair and flat chest. 

Dawn breaks through over Barcelona, the sky is golden, and so are they. John knows it because Brian believes in it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song 'Bad To Me'. Say hello over on tumblr: thisbirdhadflownx! Thank you for reading!!


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